Free How to Deceive a Duke by Lecia Cornwall

with the rest of her face hidden, that one feature betrayed a dozen emotions. He’d read disapproval, fear, pride, and determination, all from observing nothing more than her lips. It was fascinating, made him wonder what it would be like to kiss her properly.
    Was she as untried as rumor reported? “Have you been disappointed by an inebriated lover in the past? Show me the cad, and I’ll call him out on your behalf.”
    Her lips gaped in maidenly mortification. Was she blushing under the veil, or on the verge of tears? To his surprise, she laughed, and clapped a hand over her mouth.
    He frowned. He wanted to discomfit her, not amuse her. He picked up her hand and pulled off her glove, and tossed it out the window for effect. Her smile faded, and her lips trembled when he touched her.
    He looked at her hand. Her fingers were cold and stiff, though long and delicately made. Her skin was tanned, and he felt a roughness on her palm and turned her hand to look at it. Her skin was calloused and red, as if she scrubbed floors for a living.
    Another curiosity. Ladies did not have rough skin, or freckles. Aside from the fact she had pretty eyes, work-worn hands, a delectable mouth, and a quick tongue, he knew nothing about her at all.
    She clenched her hand, tried to draw back, but he opened it again, and brought it to his lips, and kissed her palm and her fingertips. He felt the tremor run through her, heard her sharp intake of breath. Her lower lip caught in her teeth. Intrigued by the reaction, he let his lips linger on the hectic pulse point in her wrist. When he slid his hand along her arm, seeking the soft skin at her elbow, she gasped and pulled away, hiding her hand in her lap, her chest heaving, lips parted in surprise.
    He shifted in his seat. The erotic teasing had unsettled her, but it also had an unexpected effect on him. Perhaps it was the fact that her face was hidden, or that she was a stranger and an innocent, though he had never found virgins to his taste before. He sat back, crossed his legs to hide his arousal and reminded himself that this was duty, not pleasure. Tantalizing as she was to toy with, she was still likely to prove a disappointment in bed. He stared out the window and did his best to ignore her, but her perfume tugged at his curiosity, and the sound of her breath and the rustle of her gown made him intensely aware of her.
    M eg’s hand tingled. Actually, everything tingled. He’d only held her hand, yet she felt his touch everywhere . The look in his eyes made her feel naked. Under her clothes her body pulsed and throbbed. She was out of her depth, drowning in sensation, and he had merely kissed her fingers.
    She drew a shaky breath and gazed at him from the feeble sanctuary of her veil, imagining what else was to come, but he was staring out the window with a world-weary expression as if he’d forgotten her. His hands lay folded in his lap. She imagined those long fingers caressing her skin, his body joined to hers. His hands, his thighs . . . She shut her eyes and gave an involuntary moan. He shot her a look, his brows rising into his hairline.
    “Pardon?” he asked.
    “Nothing,” she murmured, and clutched the roses tighter, suddenly anxious to be out of his overwhelming presence. By tomorrow it would be over—the wedding, the bedding, everything but the gossip. Surely his—their—hasty marriage would be the talk of London as soon as the notice was published in the respectable pages of the Morning Post . She shut her eyes, imagining the wicked delight the scandal sheets would take in her marriage if—when—her deception was discovered. Vultures swooped in her chest again.
    The coach pulled up beneath the portico in front of Hartley Place, and Meg looked out at the imposing town house. The Temberlay crest, a snarling wolf poised over the body of a slain doe, was carved in stone above the front door. She gazed up at it in horror for a moment, wondering if she dared to see this